


Playing for Keeps

by Supersteffy



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Banter, Drinking & Talking, Flirting, Innuendo, M/M, Pool & Billiards, Sexual Tension, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7406338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersteffy/pseuds/Supersteffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced by Ryou to attend a gathering celebrating Kaiba Corp.'s latest achievement, Bakura holds little hope of having a good time. However, upon arrival he finds Marik is also in attendance, and the two ex-partners enjoy a friendly round of billiards and banter. Thiefshipping one-shot, rated T for light cursing, innuendo, and suggestive imagery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing for Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sitabethel for beta'ing this!

Even from the parking lot the pounding of bass could be heard, giving the lively bar a pulse. It didn’t strike Bakura as the sort of place _the Seto Kaiba_ would choose to frequent, but doubtless Motou and his lot had had a hand in selecting the venue. After all, where better to celebrate the newest invention of a multi-billion dollar enterprise than a dive bar? Brushing negligible dust specks from his ‘borrowed’ crimson button-up and jeans, he followed Ryou through the entrance.

The moment the door opened onto the spacious barroom, Bakura was assaulted with a cacophony of 90’s music, laughter, and indistinguishable chatter. The excessive concentration of too-happy people made Bakura even more loath to be here, but Ryou--who had insisted Bakura needed to socialize and become a functioning member of modern society--grabbed his sleeve and subtly dragged him into the room. An ironic smirk tipped one side of Bakura’s mouth as the din settled to conspiratorial mutters at their entrance.

Seeing the incredulous stares all directed at him, Bakura couldn’t help but chuckle. Ryou was a good kid, and Bakura appreciated that he was trying to help Bakura adjust to his second chance at life, but Bakura thought he had a better chance at finally beating the late Pharaoh in a duel than he did at befriending any of his ex-enemies. Not that he really _wanted_ to befriend any of those halfwits, but Ryou seemed adamant he at least try.

“Okay…” Ryou smiled nervously at all the familiar faces throwing judgmental glances their way. “I know things are a little awkward, but I’m sure if you start up a conversation people will warm up to you.”

“Right,” Bakura drawled, crossing his arms and glowering at anyone bold enough to hold his gaze. Most of them turned away after he glanced at them. “Yeah, perhaps I’ll just chat them up a bit. ‘Hello. Been ages, hasn’t it? Last time I saw you I nearly destroyed everything you hold dear. Good times, eh?’”

Ryou’s friendly smile fell into a reproachful frown as he eyed Bakura. “Play nice, Bakura. Yugi is likely to give you a chance if you can show you’ve changed.”

“Like I need that runt’s approval. Besides, I haven’t changed and I don’t plan to--ever. I may no longer be seeking revenge, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend to be someone I’m not just to appease these assholes so they’ll initiate me into their stupid friendship cult. There’s not a single person here worth my--”

Bakura stopped as he heard a familiar voice from across the room. Eyes scanning the space with practiced efficiency, Bakura quickly spotted the voice’s owner. The lights were dimmed to give people clustered in groups a false sense of privacy, but the ethereal golden locks he’d been searching for glowed like a beacon, and he latched onto the sight.

“On second thought, maybe this party won’t be so bad after all.”

“Don’t go finding trouble,” Ryou warned.

“Too late,” Bakura hissed before slinking his way across the bar.

‘Trouble’ was dressed in too-tight, acid-wash black jeans and a black button up with glittering gold pinstripes. It wasn’t as flashy as the outfit Bakura had last seen him wear, but it looked good on him nonetheless.

Bakura felt the moment he’d caught the blonde’s attention, the weight of that gaze greater than the sum of all the others tracking his progress. Bakura came to a stop a foot shy of the billiard table, his eyes locked with smoldering amethyst. Marik leaned on his cue and jutted out his hip.

“Look who’s here. Has the bar’s standards really sunk so low?”

“Let you in here, didn’t they?”

Marik indicated the pool table with his chin. “Do you play?”

“A little.”

Marik grabbed another cue from the rack and tossed it to Bakura, who caught it deftly. Joey and Tristan--who appeared to have been playing teams against Marik and Odion--glared resentfully at Bakura, who ignored them. Odion simply stepped back to lean against the wall so Bakura could take his place.

“Eight ball, no called-shots, loser buys drinks.”

“Ferget it!” Joey shouted. “I ain’t playin’ with him.” A few eyes turned to candidly watch the encounter, all pretense forgone.

“Yeah!” Tristan agreed.

Marik raised an eyebrow at them and flicked a bang from his face. “Did I say we were playing teams?”

“Come on, Marik!” Tristan protested.

“Perhaps you should go find Yugi,” Marik suggested. “Bakura and I have some catching up to do.”

Joey and Tristan harrumphed before noisily storing their pool sticks in the rack. They arrowed distrustful looks as they approached Bakura.

“We’ll be watchin’ ya,” Joey warned as he passed by.

“I’m flattered,” Bakura monotoned.

“And send over two Fireballs and Coke,” Marik called after them.

Joey stopped and gestured inarticulately. “He wasn’t part of the last game!”

Marik raised his eyebrow again and looked down his nose at them. “You owe Odion and I each a drink for losing that last game--that has nothing to do with Bakura.”

Joey struggled to find a new excuse, but when one didn’t come to him he slunk off, Tristan right behind him.

Marik waited until they were halfway across the bar before restarting the conversation.

“Now we can chat in relative peace.” He took a sip from a glass on a nearby table, draining the last of the amber liquid. “What’s your drink?”

Bakura shrugged. “No idea. I drank beer in Ancient Egypt, but the shite they serve nowadays is hardly worthy of the name.”

Marik smiled, the look just as manipulative as Bakura remembered. “Then perhaps you’ll let me choose something for you?”

Bakura snorted, his arms crossing as he fell into their familiar verbal dance. “Why ask me? You’re just going to order what you want anyway.”

“True.” Marik nodded toward the mostly-empty pool table. “Know how to rack?”

“Please, don’t insult me.” Reaching up and grabbing the triangle, Bakura collected the balls from their various pockets. Corralling them into the rack, he rearranged them solid-stripe-solid-stripe along the left edge.

“Eight ball goes right below--”

“I know where the eight ball goes.”

Marik grinned smugly and settled back on his hind foot. “Just trying to help.”

Once the balls were where he wanted them, Bakura rolled the triangle back and forth, trying to get them to rack nicely. He did this a couple of times, partly because he was out of practice and partly to annoy Marik.

“Are we going to get on with this, or are you just going to play with the balls all day?”

Odion snorted quietly from his table against the wall, eyeing the two of them with the amused expression of a man enjoying a sitcom. Suddenly Bakura felt the rest of the room watching them again--or perhaps still--and his face warmed noticeably, though he chose to ignore it.

“Keep your comments to yourself,” Bakura grumbled, jarring the rack a few more times to tighten the formation. Satisfied, he carefully lifted the rack away and rolled the cue ball to Marik, who stopped it shy of the corner pocket. “Your break.”

Marik seized a blue chalk from a nearby table. Chalking his stick, he languidly rubbed the cube over the tip with one slender finger while resting the butt on the floor. Staring at the nimble fingers working fine blue dust onto the polished tip, something in Bakura’s gut tightened inexplicably.

“Don’t you think that’s enough chalk?” Odion asked lightly, a note of wry amusement seasoning the question.

“Just a bit more,” Marik answered, and although he addressed Odion, the calculating glance that flicked from beneath kohl-lined lashes was for Bakura’s benefit. “A little preparation can work wonders.” Then he blew the excess blue dust off the tip and Bakura had to shake himself back into focus.

Marik lined up his break and, after a few testing thrusts, broke the rack perfectly, scattering the balls across the table and pocketing the three in the corner. He sunk the six on the next shot, but trapped himself behind some of Bakura’s stripes in the process. Having few options, Marik opted to pocket the cue ball--it meant Bakura could place the ball anywhere he wanted near the head of the table, but since most of Bakura’s striped balls were at the foot of the table, with Marik’s an obstacle course in the middle, it effectively blocked most straight-on shots.

Bakura lined the cue ball up between the first two diamonds and took the easy shot, hit low on the cue ball to make it reverse course upon knocking the thirteen in. He still didn’t have any direct shots to his other balls from this new angle, but banking off the side allowed him to skirt most of the mess in the center and strike a combo off the ten, sinking the nine.

"Nicely done," Odion praised.

Marik scoffed. "There's still no way he's going to beat me."

Bakura preceded to pocket the ten and fourteen in his next two shots before shooting Marik a superior smile.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Odion murmured.

Chalking up his own stick, Bakura set the blue square aside and lowered himself, calculating his next shot and taking aim.

”Loosen your bridge, Bakura,” Marik spoke from too-close behind him.

“Move back or I’ll hit you--perhaps even by accident.”

Ignoring the jibe, Marik commented, “You’re gripping the shaft too hard. Here.”

Marik’s hand was warm as it slid over Bakura’s. Taken aback by the contact, Bakura hesitated a long second before flinching his hand from under Marik’s correcting fingers.

“My grip is fine!”

Marik splayed his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Fine, but if you keep shooting like that, you’re never going to hit your mark. Here.” Marik pushed into where Bakura had been lining up his shot, spread his stance--his jeans clinging tightly as he bent--and set up for a practice shot. His cue slid deftly between his fingers as he primed the shot, his grip on the butt languid.

“See, if you take your time and toy with the angle first, you’ll have a better feel for it and it will improve your stroke, as well as your aim.”

Bakura growled, again acutely aware of the attention their little game was attracting. You’d think they were once again plotting the demise of everyone’s favorite little runt from the wary looks they were collecting.

“There is nothing wrong with my technique or my aim!”

Marik spun around and suddenly they were close enough to share breathing space. “Oh really?” he purred on cinnamon-scented air, a finger running along his cue absently. His gaze roved over Bakura’s body, tangible as fingertips, and Bakura repressed a shiver. “Then show me.”

Bakura swallowed, the smoky air of the bar making it difficult to breathe normally. “Right. Move out of the way then.”

Marik did so, taking up a barstool nearby as if it were a throne, the pool stick in his right hand held with all the confidence and command as the Millennium Rod once had been.

Bakura could smell Marik’s perfume lingering in the air, and he was acutely aware of Marik’s glittering gaze drinking him in as he planned out his next move.

The drinks arrived as Bakura’s shot hit the fifteen--just missing the side pocket by a hair--and without prompting, Odion handed Bakura the glass Marik hadn’t taken. Nodding his thanks, he took a sip. The recognizable taste of Coke mixed with a cinnamon after-taste that burned a little on its way down his throat. Considering the drink, he frowned as Marik knocked in the seven, one, two, and four in turn, effectively reclaiming the lead before coming up shy on his attempt to sink the five.

“Damn,” Bakura cursed softly, glaring at the table.

“Looks like I’m going to win this one,” Marik commented lightly, sauntering to where he’d left his drink.

“It’s not over until the eight’s in the hole, Marik. Let’s not go getting ahead of ourselves, now.”

Bakura took another glug of his drink before leaving it in Odion’s charge.

Banking carefully off the head of the table--where Marik had somehow managed to trap the cue ball behind the five he’d failed to pocket--he managed to skirt the ball impeding his straight shot and kissed his fifteen, jolting it the millimeter it needed to land with a satisfying rumble in the side pocket. The cue ball usurped the precarious position it had helped the fifteen vacate, and Bakura grinned as Marik swore in appreciation.

“That was a lucky shot.”

“ _Luck_ had nothing to do with it.”

A delicate snort disturbed the surface of Marik’s beverage. “Whatever you say, Bakura.”

With the table wide open and Marik’s only remaining ball waiting unobtrusively in the corner, Bakura swept the table clean in his next few shots. When all that remained were the eight ball and Marik’s solitary orange one, Bakura met Marik’s eyes triumphantly from beneath milky bangs.

“Get your wallet ready, Marik. Looks like you’ll be buying drinks after all.”

Marik gestured sharply with his hand. “Just hit the damn ball.”

Obliging, Bakura took his shot, landing the eight squarely in the hole--and the cue ball immediately after it.

Marik burst out laughing, drawing the eyes of those who hadn’t been avidly watching already. Odion, more gracious than Marik by far, merely sent a sympathetic smile Bakura’s way.

“What was that you said about me buying drinks?”

Hands resting gently atop his pool cue, Bakura gave a lazy shrug. “I let you win.”

Marik’s eyes sparkled with ire and booze. “The hell you did! I won that fair and square!”

Bakura’s mouth sharpened with a challenging smile. “Did you, though?” Picking blue chalk from under his nails, he added, “Guess you’ll never know for sure.”

“I’ll prove it to you!”

Scathing white eyebrows rose delicately. “And how, pray, tell, will you accomplish that?”

“One more game. If I win this time, then you admit that I out-played you.”

Bakura contemplated Marik’s fiery expression and stiff posture before huffing out a bored snort. “Surely we can do better than that?”

Kohl-lined mauve met cool, earthy umber as their eyes spoke for them. Marik’s lips untwisted from their grimace back to their familiar suave smirk, and Bakura’s stomach twisted in response.

“Okay. What did you have in mind?”

“If I win, we get the fuck out of here--and I decide how we spend the rest of the evening.”

Marik leveled his gaze challengingly. “And if I win?”

Bakura felt the alcohol warming him, flushing his cheeks--making him bold. “Then you call the shots.”

Marik’s eyes brightened with promised power. “Deal.”

Having broke the last game, Marik racked, and Bakura stepped up to break.

This time there were no playful remarks. Focusing on the yellow ball shining dully in the dim light above the table, Bakura breathed in, held it, and struck on the exhale.

Organized chaos reigned momentarily as the balls whizzed about before slowing to a stop, the five landing in a corner pocket at the table’s foot. Taking a brief moment to size up the table, Bakura angled his next shot to rebound off the side, between Marik’s stripes congregated in the middle, off the head-end wall, and into the seven, securing it in the side pocket. Marik snorted derisively. “Way to trap yourself.”

He was right. The move had left Bakura surrounded, the cue ball stopping dead-center amongst Marik’s stripes. Allowing himself the barest of smirks, Bakura angled his stick high. “Two. Corner pocket.” Nicking the cue ball so it jumped neatly over the twelve, Bakura’s prediction came true as the two rolled into the corner. Bakura registered the shock on Marik’s face with an indulgent chuckle.

The one was near at hand and, calling the shot, Bakura landed it a quick, careful nudge to its side to put it in the side pocket. Next came the three, then the six. A straight shot to the four on the other end of the table was once again impeded by the constellation of stripes in the middle, so he avoided the problem altogether.

Pointing with the tip of the cue, Bakura called, “Four. That corner.” A careful jab from a high angle sent it arcing toward the side, then gracefully back in to collide with its target. The four thundered into the corner pocket.

That left the eight ball, and Marik’s untouched group of stripes.

Bakura didn’t dare look at Marik again. Not yet.

“Eight ball,” he said soberly. “Far, left-corner pocket.”

With one more calming breath, he prepared the straight shot for the eight ball, aiming barely below center on the cue ball. On the exhale, he thrust. The cue ball shot forward. White struck black, then stopped on impact as the eight ball moved forward with the momentum of the cue ball--and landed in the corner with a final-sounding thud.

Victory secured, Bakura turned toward Marik--and found himself crushed against the table’s edge in an unexpected kiss. Bronze fingers fisted his hair and shirt as his breath was sucked from his lungs, teeth and shoes knocking heedlessly as Marik’s thigh pressed between Bakura’s.

Then there was cool air as Marik broke the kiss as rapidly as he began it. They stared at one another. A charged hush fell over the bar, broken distantly by Ishizu’s uncharacteristic curse.

Clearing his throat, Marik pulled back a pace. Bakura’s hands twitched at his sides.

“Looks like I won the bet.”

Bakura’s befuddled brain jolted back into focus. “Beg your pardon?”

Marik smirked, his glistening lips still tantalizingly close. “You broke the rules, Bakura. No called-shots.”

A surprised laugh escaped him before he smothered it. “Well, then,” he drawled. “Your call.”

Marik looked Bakura over, grinned, and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

They wove their way passed a table nearby where Kaiba and Mokuba were discussing Industrial Illusions’ soon-to-be-released cards and how much programming had to be done for the next Duel Disk update. They hadn’t made it halfway to the portal when Ishizu suddenly blocked their path, her hand seizing Marik’s bicep to stop him.

“What do you think you’re doing, Brother?”

“Leaving, obviously,” Bakura answered her.

Ishizu’s glare was venomous. “I wasn’t addressing you.”

Shaking her grip from him with a lazy flex of muscle, Marik firmly placed the hand not laced with Bakura’s onto his hip and stepped back to stand side-by-side with Bakura.

“Not that it’s any of your business, _Sister_ , but I was planning on doing Bakura.”

The entire room fell awkwardly quiet, Billy Joel’s Only the Good Die Young the only sound in the room for a long moment. Ishizu’s dark, narrowed eyes flew wide with shock at the crass proclamation. Stammering, incoherent, she flushed with temper and insulted modesty.

“For the sake of the gods,” she hissed, “show some decorum, Marik!”

Marik frowned at that. “The gods have never done anything for my sake; why should I do anything for theirs?”

Far more subtle than her brother, but equally as cunning, Ishizu changed tactics, her expression now pleading. “For your own good, then, think about the ramifications of your actions! The Pharaoh pardoned you, Marik! Do you really want to throw that away by aligning yourself once more with _him_?”

“She’s right, you know,” Bakura sided lightly. “Hanging out with me will taint your reputation--just ask Ryou.”

Marik smirked at Bakura, his hand squeezing briefly. “Ryou seems to be getting along just fine. Even so, Pharaoh’s pardon or no, my reputation’s murky already--what’s a little more dirt?”

“Marik--” Ishizu started, but he cut her off.

“Besides, I couldn’t care less about offending anyone here--the only reason I came is because _you_ insisted on it.”

“Let him be, Ishizu,” Odion spoke up, coming to stand like a referee beside the argumentative siblings.

“He’s making a mistake!” she insisted, her eyes pleading for Odion to back her up.

“No,” Odion corrected calmly, “He’s making a decision you disagree with.” His voice was smooth and strong, with an air of wisdom that belied his age. Marik’s grin was vindicated. Then Odion turned his mellow gaze on Marik and the grin faded. “Mind how you go, Marik. You’re free to live your life as you see fit, but a bridge, once burnt, is not easily rebuilt.”

Chastised, he held Odion’s patient gaze and nodded. Odion grabbed Ishizu’s hand lightly and pulled her gently out of their way, deaf to her protests. Together Marik and Bakura took a step forward, but they stopped once again as Odion lightly touched a halting hand to Bakura’s shoulder.

“Robbing tombs is a risky business,” he commented, his voice deep and solemn. “One misstep can lead to disaster, and the greater the treasure, the more traps there will be to keep it safe.” His gaze pierced Bakura’s. “If you should find yourself in possession of such a treasure, I counsel that you treat it with care, for even the rarest of treasures may break if mishandled.”

Marik sent Odion a confused look, but Bakura simply nodded, swallowing with difficulty. Stepping back, Odion removed his hand and gestured for them to go.

Heading once more for the door, Bakura scanned the stunned faces. He found Ryou watching them from the table he shared with Yugi and his posse. His expression was a mix of exasperation and wry happiness.

“You were right, Ryou,” Bakura called over his shoulder as they passed by. “Looks like I made a friend after all.” Bakura sent him a wink before disappearing through the doors.


End file.
